


Follow Every Rainbow

by elance (amyfortuna)



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, First Meetings, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/elance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christian returns to Paris 10 years later and meets Satine's son, Olivier. They find themselves falling in love. Christian/Olivier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Every Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify the ages involved for the math-impaired: at the time this story is set, 10 years after the events of 'Moulin Rouge', Christian is 32, Olivier is 22. Satine gave birth to Olivier at 15, and was 27 when she died.

“Mr. Orpheo, may I take your coat?”

He stood silent by the window, lost in reverie, a man with the body of a youth, but a look on his face that spoke of sorrow beyond his years. It was 1910 and he was thirty-two.

“Mr. Orpheo?” He turned when the chambermaid repeated his name, smiled apologetically, and shrugged out of his jacket with a sigh. She took it and began to put it away in the closet as he turned back to the window, staring out at the streets of Paris with an absent expression on his face.

“Anything else, sir?”

Christian Orpheo shook his head, still staring out the window. “No. Just be sure to bring up my mail promptly once it arrives every day. I have important communications which must be answered quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and slipped out of the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet **snick**, but Christian did not hear it.

Paris. After ten years, he had returned to the place where he had found and loved and lost Satine. This time it was not the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had sent him here, but business. His father had died recently, and Christian had become the main liaison of his father’s company in France. He would be staying here for approximately a year, to get the affairs of the business straightened out, and then would return home to see whether or not his older brother wished to keep him as the French liaison, or send him to America.

He didn’t much care either way. The future was of little concern to him. All that mattered was that he was **here** again. He could walk the old familiar streets again, see his old friends again.

It would never be the same, of course. Satine was dead. Toulouse was dead. The Moulin Rouge was gone, and Harold Zidler had faded into a shadow of his bombastic self.

Yet, even with the memory of death and sorrow hanging over this place, Christian felt happier than he had been in years.

He’d briefly tried to get Satine’s book published. It had been turned down by every publisher in not only Paris, but England as well. It existed now only as a few faded copies of manuscript, deep in his trunk.

“Tell our story, Christian,” she had whispered in those final moments. And at last Christian had realized that the telling of the story was important, not whether it was listened to or not. Those few pages filled with tears hid the love of his youth inside them. He had stopped trying to find a publisher four years ago.

The music had died. There were no more songs to sing, and no one who called songs out of him that needed to be sung. Christian had plunged himself into his father’s company, Orpheus Jewelry, and was now wealthy enough himself to have bought gifts on the scale of the Duke’s for pretty girls.

He hadn’t. The only piece of jewelry he had made was a small ring, set with a tiny diamond, formed to fit his own hand, and simply bearing the name “Christian” inside it. He never wore it, but kept it around his neck on a chain. He told himself he was keeping it for someone, but had long ago lost hope that anyone would come into his life.

He turned away from the window with a long sigh, and drew the curtains. The dimness of a summer afternoon settled down upon him, and he lay down on the large bed in the center of the room and stared at the walls.

* * *

When evening came and the bustling noises of people coming home to dress for dinner could be heard, Christian got up and opened the curtains again. A fresh breeze slipped in through the window, teasing at his hair, and though he had not fallen asleep, he felt refreshed.

“I’ll walk the streets tonight,” he whispered just under his breath. The sweetness of the evening breeze rushed in upon him again, and suddenly he knew he could not stay in that room any longer.

He grabbed his hat and coat, and went from the room without putting them on, walking bareheaded into the late afternoon sunshine. The breeze continued to dance around him as though it were leading him on. For the first time in years he began to feel young again.

He walked for about an hour, finally reaching the edge of the town of Monmarte. His steps slowed as he stared at a bookstore that he and Satine had visited once, giggling and kissing behind the shelves as they searched for a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Christian put on his coat and stepped inside, almost shyly, as if old ghosts would drift out of the back and welcome him.

There were no old ghosts. Just a young man, almost still a boy, glancing up in the dimness with a friendly smile. Something about that smile struck Christian as oddly familiar.

“Hello,” he said. “By any chance, do you happen to have a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets?”

The young man held up the book he was reading. “Yes, sir. I do. I love his sonnets; it’s amazing how four hundred years later they still speak to us so vividly.”

“We’ve all been in love,” Christian said, stepping closer. “Shakespeare just put our love into words that are timeless.”

The young man smiled again, slightly mischievous. “I’ve never been in love.” He set the book down and held out a hand. “I’m Olivier Beauport, by the way, and I own this place.”

“I’m Christian Orpheo,” Christian replied, taking that hand in his own, “and the last time I was in this place, you didn’t own it.”

“Oh, when was that?”

“About ten years ago,” Christian said, letting go of Olivier’s hand with a strange reluctance. “In fact, you look oddly familiar to me, even though I’m sure we’ve never met before. Have you ever lived in London? That’s where I’m from.”

“No, I’ve never been to London,” Olivier said. “And ten years ago….” His eyes got dim, filling with memory. “That was when everything changed.”

“What happened?” Christian asked, sensing a story.

“I was raised by the Calbote family in Bordeaux for the first twelve years of my life. They were the only family I knew. Then, late in the winter of 1899, a man came to see me, claiming that he had known my mother.”

“**Had** known?” Christian asked.

“Yes,” Olivier said. “My mother was dead. That was the first thing I learned. The second thing I learned was that my mother had been…” He paused, taking a deep breath, and leaned in toward Christian. “A whore at the Moulin Rouge.”

Knowledge suddenly broke over Christian like a wave. “Satine,” he whispered, hardly knowing what he was saying.

“You knew Satine?” Olivier asked, visibly shaken. “You knew my mother?”

“You look just like her,” Christian said. “Her smile, her hair…” his voice trailed off.

Olivier stared at him in silence for a few moments. Then “come with me,” he said, shutting off the light in the room and leading the way through to a small office in the back of the store.

“It was time to close anyway,” he said. “Please, sit down.” He gestured to a chair and Christian obeyed him, numbly. Olivier sat down on a chair opposite and resumed his story.

“This man, the Duke Beaufort, took me for his own child and gave me his name, because he said he had loved my mother. He brought me up in a castle on the Rhine for the next six years, and on my eighteenth birthday, gave me enough money to do whatever I wished, but specifically so I could establish myself in business. I wanted to sell books. I also had a craving to find out about my mother. The Duke would never say anything about her. So I came here, bought this store from its owner, who was ready to retire, and I have never met anyone who knew my mother, until you walked in tonight.” He stood up and looked at Christian with the same look of pleading that Satine had worn, long years ago. “Tell me about her.”

“Satine,” Christian began, and paused, looking hard at the young man standing across from him. “Oh, you do not know what you are asking me to do. When were you born? Long before I knew her, I’m certain.”

“I don’t know when I was born in her life, but if you knew her just before her death ten years ago, then I was no longer with her. I have no memory of her at all. There are a few pictures of her and of the scenes in the Moulin Rouge that I have tried to gather together.”

“Do you have them here?” Christian asked. “Let me see.”

The pictures, too, were familiar, and Christian exclaimed over them as he saw them, for many were by Toulouse, and he had participated in their creation.

“That was Harold Zidler,” he said of one. “I wonder if he is still alive.”

“I don’t know the name,” Olivier said, shaking his head.

“He would be the one person who would know about your birth,” Christian answered. “He was the owner of the Moulin Rouge.”

“The owner!” Olivier grew silent. “He was the man who kept my mother in bondage to that life, then.”

“No! That’s not quite true.” Christian sat up. “I have a story to tell you. It’s a story about…” He paused and looked at Olivier, very silent. “…about love. I loved Satine.”

“You?” Olivier looked amazed. “But she had to have been several years older than you. You were one of her clients, right?”

Christian shook his head, a horrified look on his face. “Never say that to me again,” he whispered, almost deadly. “I loved her, and she loved me. I was the one who held her as she died. I was the one she would have risked her life for. She was the one who inspired everything I had to give; everything I have ever written or sung or breathed was for her.”

Olivier said nothing, transfixed by the look on Christian’s face.

“She told me to tell our story,” Christian went on. “I have never found anyone who wanted to read it. But I think perhaps you should.”

“There’s a story about Satine?” Olivier looked overwhelmed. “It seems, from what I can find, she just disappeared from history entirely, and remains only in Toulouse’s paintings. But if you know, if you’ve written it down, then of course I need to read it.”

“I don’t have a copy with me,” Christian began.

“Where is this book?” Olivier asked. “I cannot wait another day.”

“Come with me,” Christian said.

* * *

Olivier watched in impatient silence as Christian dug the thin manuscript out of his trunk.

“Olivier,” he said, just before handing over the sheets of paper, “this is a story about love, written by a grief-stricken man. It occurs to me now that I may have drawn some people in unfavorable lights that seemed to oppose me, your Duke among them. I know now that whatever the Duke’s actions may have been in the past, he has done his best to atone for them by giving you every advantage. Read this story with that in mind.”

“‘Security, that’s real love,’” Olivier quoted. “I don’t believe that, of course, but in one sense, providing security is a form of love. But what matters is who **she** loved, not who loved her. And that seems to have been you.”

With a sad smile, Christian gave Olivier the manuscript. “Stay here and read it,” he said. “There is room enough.”

“Thank you,” Olivier said, sitting down at the small worktable. “I know you don’t want to let a precious thing like this out of your hands.” He smiled and began to read, as Christian sat down on the bed, and simply watched him.

For the first several moments, Olivier kept looking up to ask questions, but once well into the story, the only thing that could be heard from him was a long-drawn sigh, or, once, a stifled groan of agony. Christian watched the looks play over his face, joy, fear, ecstasy, terror, hope, despair.

At last, with a long sigh, he laid the manuscript down, and looked over at Christian. Almost he seemed about to speak, but at the look on Christian’s face, could not. Instead he simply rose from the table, made his way to the bed, and held out his arms.

“I understand everything, now,” he whispered, and not waiting for Christian to move, slid onto the bed, and slipped his arms around him, just holding him.

“She was so beautiful,” Christian whispered, face muffled in Olivier’s shoulder.

For a long time they sat there together, not speaking, just feeling the beat of their hearts slowly pounding in perfect time with each other. Christian did not weep, but kept his face hidden against Olivier’s shoulder, just resting in the warmth and nearness of him.

At last, when the silence had stretched a bit too long, Olivier pulled away, keeping his hand on Christian’s shoulder. “You do not know what a great gift you have given me,” he said finally.

Christian smiled. “You do not know what a great gift you are to **me**,” he said, leaning forward intimately. “Now that I have discovered you, I do not think I could let you go.”

He lifted a hand to Olivier’s face, drawing a light finger across his lips. “You look like your mother in so many ways, and yet, you are unique and so very beautiful in your own right.”

Olivier trembled at the tender touch. “I have only known you for a few hours, and I cannot bear the thought of parting with you,” he said. “You lived so vividly in me as I read that work of yours, and my head is spinning with visions of beauty and terror.”

“We should go see Harold Zidler,” Christian said. “He will know the answers to your questions about your own place in Satine’s life, far more than I could.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Olivier said. “You will take me to see him.”

“Of course,” Christian answered, and rose from the bed. “It’s getting late indeed.” He walked over to the window, where the sounds of revelers at a nearby bar seemed to be winding down.

“I should go home,” Olivier said, not sounding much like he wanted to leave.

Christian turned back to look at him. “Yes,” he said. “You should.”

“I don’t really want to,” Olivier said, standing up.

Christian gave a small laugh. “Oh, you — I don’t want you to either, but…” He looked soberly at him. “We — not yet. Wait. Find out everything first, and then we’ll see.”

Olivier glanced downward for a swift moment at Christian’s words, then looked up at him again and took two steps to his side. “Don’t forget me between the night and the dawn,” he said, putting his arms around Christian.

Their lips met in mutual agreement, a quiet kiss sealing their stammered words. All too soon, Olivier drew back.

“I’m leaving now,” he whispered, kiss-close to Christian. “Tomorrow.”

Christian breathed in a deep breath as Olivier let go, and let his head fall back, white marble in the moonlight, leaning against the window, as Olivier slipped out the door.

He closed his eyes and let the joy come bubbling back from long-forgotten places, tunes and words spilling over his heart, a new song.

“Climb every mountain,” he sang just under his breath to a simple tune. “Ford every stream. Follow every rainbow, until you find your dream.”

The joy stayed with him when he woke up the next morning, dancing in his heart like the sunshine danced on his face. The joy stayed as he took care of the few business matters that needed his attention. The joy stayed as he prepared to go find Olivier, and spun his soul, prismlike, into a thousand rainbows dancing, as he walked toward the bookstore that belonged to Olivier.

“Christian!” Olivier’s face was radiant in the beam of sunlight as Christian walked inside the little store. No one else was there, and it was nearly one o’ clock in the afternoon. “I’m going to shut the store down for the rest of the day. Were you able to find out where Harold Zidler lives now?”

“That was easy, actually,” Christian said, leaning against one of the bookshelves and watching Olivier with a keen pleasure in his eyes. “He still lives in the Moulin Rouge, deep in the private quarters, and he keeps to himself. But I know he’ll see us, for my sake if nothing else.”

“Good!” Olivier said, setting down an armful of books and slipping over to Christian. He laid a tentative hand on Christian’s shoulder, but when Christian did not pull away, leaned in and kissed him, quickly, on the mouth. Christian straightened up, put his arms around Olivier, and deepened the kiss for a long moment.

“I thought you said you’d never been in love,” Christian said once they had broken, flushed and panting, for air.

Olivier laughed. “That was yesterday, Christian. It no longer holds true.”

“Ah, you didn’t know me then,” Christian teased.

“It is beyond my understanding to see how someone **could** know you and not fall in love with you.” Olivier leaned in, brushing Christian’s cheek with his lips for just an instant. “You are irresistible,” he whispered in Christian’s ear.

Christian drew in a quick breath. “Oh, this is so different,” he said, looking at Olivier with tenderness in his glance. “You make me want to sing, but not the same songs.”

Olivier trailed a hand down Christian’s arm, quietly listening. “I loved her,” Christian went on, “but I was also in awe of her at the same time. But you!” He shook his head. “You stormed into my heart and left me breathless.” He stopped talking and their lips met, long and deep and slow, filled with wonder and joy.

Their bodies were slowly wrapping themselves around each other, Olivier’s hands sneaking up underneath Christian’s clothes, Christian’s fingers skimming the waistband of Olivier’s trousers and diving under to float along the tender skin there. They could feel each other, hard and hot, pulses pounding the same incadescent rhythm.

Kissing. Sweet kissing. Quick kissing. Long slow kissing. Every embrace brought them nearer to ripping each other’s clothes off right there, in the middle of the afternoon in a sunny bookstore, where anyone could walk in.

Finally, Christian moved his head a little too far, and a shelf of books came crashing down. Startled, they instantly sprang apart and knelt to pick up the fallen books. Their hands kept meeting, entwining, parting reluctantly.

“We should go,” Christian breathed. “We need to see Zidler. You have to know the truth of who you are.”

Olivier laughed. “Oh, Christian, yes. We should. But we **will** continue this tonight.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Christian said.

“Let’s go, then.” Olivier grabbed Christian’s hand, pulling him up off the floor. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back, right?”

“Right!” Christian said, and followed him out the door.

“This is Satine’s child, you say, Christian?” Harold had received them rather grumpily, and showed little inclination to understand what they were trying to tell him, but once they got it through, seemed to show more interest.

“Yes,” Christian said. “His name is Olivier. We met by chance the other day, and he needs to know about his mother.”

“Satine,” Harold whispered. “She was beautiful, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Olivier, trying to be patient.

“Those days were glorious, before everything collapsed,” Harold went on. “Satine was a girl on the street before she came to me at the age of thirteen. Her parents died, she never told me how. Maybe she herself did not know. I saw possibilities in her, and I took her in.”

Harold rearranged himself in his chair and closed his eyes. “She got pregnant when she was fifteen.”

Olivier and Christian glanced at each other, and Christian gasped.

“That child was you, Olivier — I remember her giving you that name. She begged to keep you, but we couldn’t have children running around the place, you know. So I sent you off before you were six months old, to the Calbotes.”

“Yes.” Olivier nodded. “She begged to keep me?”

Harold sighed. “You were her first and only child and she was a young girl. Of course she begged to keep you. But after you were gone, she never spoke of you again, except for once just before her death.”

“She never mentioned a child to me,” Christian said.

“No, this was different,” Harold said. “She wanted her possessions given away to certain people, and you were among them.” He looked up at Christian. “So were you, actually.”

“I never got anything of hers,” Christian said.

“We couldn’t find you once we got around to dealing with everything of hers.” Harold shook his head. “We supposed you had gone back to England by then.”

“It’s possible,” Christian said. “Do you still have these things?”

“Oh, yes,” Harold said. “Nini was all for selling them, but the rest of the girls wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Nini Legs-In-The-Air?” Olivier asked. “I’ve seen pictures that Toulouse painted of her.”

“That’s the one,” Harold said. “She didn’t care much for Satine.”

“Where are these things of Satine’s now?” Christian said.

“Do you remember the elephant?” Harold asked.

“Of course,” Christian answered, blushing.

“They’re all stored there in her private room. Some jewels, some books, some clothes. You two are the only ones she talked about, so I guess it’s all yours.” Harold turned in his chair and closed his eyes. “Go on, then.”

“Good-bye, Harold,” Christian said.

No reply came.

“Come with me.” Christian turned to Olivier, and together they tiptoed out of the room.

In the dusty silence of Satine’s chamber, a large box sat on the couch, looking out of place amid the faded loveliness. Olivier opened it, pulling out first one folded-up letter, then another.

“This one’s for you,” he said, handing one of the papers to him. Christian unfolded it and read it, silently.

_"My dear Christian,_

__

I may never see you again before I die, but I want you to know — I love you. I had to hurt you to save you. These lines are brief, but the heart that goes with them is wholly yours. I have little to leave you, but maybe these jewels and some of my favorite books will comfort you when you look at them.

I also have a son, born long before your arrival. His name is Olivier, and he lives with the Calbotes. Harold can direct you to him, if you desire to love him for my sake. Please, I beg of you, think nothing ill of me. I loved you and would have gladly spent my life with you, if life and health were granted to me.

Forever yours,

 

Satine

“It’s like seeing her again,” Christian whispered. “She asks me to love you for her sake.”

Olivier laid a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “And will you?”

“I will,” Christian said, leaning up to kiss Olivier quickly on the mouth. “But not only for her sake, for yours.”

Olivier read his letter out loud, pausing after every sentence to take it in.

_Dearest Olivier,_

__

My name is Satine, and I am your mother. I did not wish to confide this news to a letter, but there is no other way to tell you. I am sure it will be given to you when you are old enough to receive it. I hesitate to break in upon your happiness with the news of my death. I am certain you have been well and happy, living in the country. Please forgive my unhappy life, for I have had no other choice. You were a joy at your birth, and you are a joy now.

Simply knowing you exist has made my life richer. I ask you, please grow up to be a good man, a man who has an open heart and open hands. Love with all you have.

If ever you meet a man named Christian, love him, for he loved me.

Love always,

 

Satine

“She has blessed us,” Olivier said, looking up.

“She has,” Christian answered, looking through the rest of the contents of the box. Jewels lay inside, books, strings of pearls, gifts from admirers. “Come,” he went on. “Let’s go back to my rooms, and continue our…conversation of the early afternoon.”

“We shall,” Olivier said, sliding his arms around Christian for a brief moment, and resting his head on his shoulder. “I love you, Christian. Not because she loved you, but because I love you.”

Christian turned in his arms and kissed him. “Now you know your history. It is time to discover your future.”

“I am ready.” Olivier leaned forward to touch his forehead to Christian’s. “It is time.”

* * *

“Christian,” the words were hesitant as they came into the dimness of Christian’s apartment, “have you ever loved anyone else like that?”

Christian smiled. “Oh no. I couldn’t have.” He turned to look at Olivier. “Love doesn’t work that way. You don’t fall in love the same way with different people.”

“I don’t understand.” Olivier sat down on the bed.

Christian sat down beside him and took his hand. “I loved Satine with a wild passion. It was love at first sight, and it was wonderful. It wasn’t something I was expecting to ever feel again, so it doesn’t surprise me….” He drifted into silence, met Olivier’s eyes, leaned in and kissed him for a long moment. “…that I love you with a love just as sweet, but far different.”

Olivier laughed. “Not the same way?”

“No,” Christian said. “Somehow, in these last few days, I’ve found you filling up my heart and making me sing again.” He let go of Olivier’s hand and stood up. “Could I sing for you? Satine teased songs out of me with her resistance, but you look at me and they cannot be contained.”

“**Yes**,” Olivier whispered. “Yes, please.”

Quietly, softly, Christian began to sing. Song after song, fading into each other, murmuring and vanishing.

Olivier sat upright on the bed, listening in utter silence.

Christian took a breath and sung a song of impossible beauty and of love that lives beyond death.

Olivier bent his head, the tears coming to his eyes.

Christian’s voice went silent, and for a moment the sound of Olivier weeping was the only thing heard in the room.

It was Christian’s turn, this time, to go to Olivier and lay his arms around him. “Dear one,” he whispered, “it was you who called those words out of me. They are yours.”

Olivier turned in Christian’s arms and caught his mouth in a tear-wet kiss.

“I am yours,” Christian went on after a moment. “Do what you will with me.”

Olivier could not speak.

“Follow every rainbow, follow every star, until you find that pot of gold, until you find out who you are…”

Christian sang the words very softly into Olivier’s ear, kissing him with every breath. “I’ve found mine,” he said.

Olivier met his eyes. “And I’ve found mine,” he answered. “I love you, Christian.”

“Until the end of time.” They whispered the words, passion-hot, together, and their mouths met in a kiss that seemed to last for all eternity.

Or until the end of time. Whichever was longer.


End file.
